IRLF 


B    3    315    M37 


* 


Hit!   I   I 


•P 

luutiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiiitii! 


WILLIAM 
L  YL  E 
COOK 


GIFT   OF 
Mrs. William  L.    Cook 


RILEY  SONGS  OF  HOME 


(Kifeg 


NEGHBORLY  POEMS 

SKETCHES  IN   PROSE  WITH   INTERLUDING  VERSES 

AFTERWH1LES 

PIPES  O'    PAN   AT  ZEKESBURY   (Prose  and  Verse) 

RHYMES   OF  CHILDHOOD 

THE  FLYING   ISLANDS   OF  THE  NIGHT 

GREEN    FIELDS  AND   RUNNING  BROOKS 

ARMAZINDY 

A  CHILD  WORLD 

HOME-FOLKS 

HIS  PA'S  ROMANCE  (Portrait  by  Clay) 

MORNING 


GREENFIELD    EDITION' 

Sold  only  in  sets.     Twelve  volumes  uniformly  bound  in  sage-green 

cloth,  gilt  top        $15.00 

The  same  in  half-calf 30.00 


OLD-FASHIONED   ROSES    (English  Edition) 

THE  GOLDEN  YEAR   (English  Edition) 

POEMS   HERE  AT  HOME 

RUBAIYAT  OF  DOC   SIFERS 

THE  BOOK  OF  JOYOUS  CHILDREN 

RILEY  CHILD-RHYMES   (Pictures  by  Vawter) 

RILEY  LOVE-LYRICS   (Pictures  by  Dyer) 

RILEY  FARM-RHYMES    (Pictures  by  Vawter) 

RILEY  SONGS  O'  CHEER    (Pictures  by  Vawter) 

RILEY  SONGS   OF  SUMMER   (Pictures  by  Vawter) 

RILEY  SONGS  OF  HOME    (Pictures  by  Vawter) 

AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  OF  MINE   (Pictures  by  Christy) 

OUT  TO  OLD  AUNT  MARY'S  (Pictures  by  Christy) 

HOME  AGAIN   WITH  ME   ( Pictures  by  Christy) 

RILEY  ROSES   (Pictures  by  Christy) 

OLD  SCHOOL-DAY  ROMANCES   (Pictures  by  Crawford) 

THE  GIRL  I  LOVED   (Pictures  by  Christy) 

A  DEFECTIVE  SANTA  CLAUS    (Forty  Pictures  by  Relyea 

and  Vawter) 

THE  BOYS  OFTHE  OLD  GLEE  CLUB  (Pictures  by  Vawter) 
WHILE  THE  HEARTBEATS  YOUNG   (Pictures  by  Betts) 
THE  RAGGEDY  MAN  (Pictures  by  Betts) 
THE  ORPHANT  ANNIE  BOOK   (  Pictures  by  Betts) 
THE  RUNAWAY  BOY    (Pictures  by  Betts) 
RILEY  CHILD-VERSE  (Pictures  by  Betts) 


RILEY 


SONGS  OF  HOME 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


WITH  PICTURES  BY 

WILL  VAWTER 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1910 
BY  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

All  Rights  Reserved 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  &  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS  AND  PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,   N.  Y. 


TO 

GEORGE  A.  CARR 


586404 


CONTENTS 

As  CREATED 56 

As  MY  UNCLE  USED  TO  SAY    .                 126 

AT  SEA 160 

BACKWARD  LOOK,  A .  155 

BEST  Is  GOOD  ENOUGH,  THE  ....  123 

BOYS,  THE 104 

"BRAVE  REFRAIN,  A" 113 

DREAMER,  SAY 61 

FEEL  IN  THE  CHRIS'MAS  AIR,  A      ......  52 

FOR  You 50 

GOOD  MAN,  A     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .132 

HER  BEAUTIFUL  HANDS  ........  189 

His  ROOM 38 

HONEY  DRIPPING  FROM  THE  COMB        .        .  .        .125 

"How  DID  You  REST,  LAST  NIGHT?" 94 

IN  THE  EVENING 115 

IT'S  GOT  TO  BE 107 

JACK-IN-THE-BOX IOO 

Jl-M ...  117 

JOHN  MCKEEN 165 

JUST  TO  BE  GOOD      .........  26 

KNEELING  WITH  HERRICK 138 

LAUGHTER  HOLDING  BOTH  His  SIDES 81 

MULBERRY  TREE,  THE .        .  46 

MY  DANCIN'  DAYS  Is  OVER 184 

MY  FRIEND 29 

NATURAL  PERVERSITIES 70 

NOT  ALWAYS  GLAD  WHEN  WE  SMILE  .....  36 


CONTENTS— Continued 

OLD  DAYS,  THE         .        ,        .        .               .       .  * \.       .  135 

OLD  GUITAR,  THE     .        .        .        .        .       .       .        .     :.  161 

OLD  TRUNDLE-BED,  THE     •„  .        ."     ".       ..       .        .        .  64 

OUR  BOYHOOD  HAUNTS    .        .       .        .       .       .       .       .  182 

OUR  KIND  OF  A  MAN        .     .-.       .       .       .       .       .        .  92 

OUR  OWN    .       .-  .   .       .        .       .       ...        .      ...  63 

"OUT  OF  REACH?"    .        .       ....       .      "•        •       •  II2 

OUT  OF   THE  HlTHERWHERE     .           .           ._„.-,...           .  98 

PLAINT  HUMAN,  THE        .        .      --.        ._      .       ".  v  .        .  43 

QUEST,  THE 44 

RAINY  MORNING,  THE      .   .  •  . 141 

REACH  YOUR  HAND  TO  ME 143 

SCRAWL,  A 75 

SONG  OF  PARTING      .               , 9° 

SONG  OF  YESTERDAY,  THE      . 82 

SPRING  SONG  AND  A  LATER,  A        ...        .        .        .13? 

"THEM  OLD  CHEERY  WORDS" 172 

THINKIN'  BACK          .....                ...  31 

THROUGH  SLEEPY-LAND 17° 

To  MY  OLD  FRIEND,  WILLIAM  LEACHMAN  ....  145 

To  THE  JUDGE 17? 

WE  MUST  BELIEVE  .        . 13° 

WE  MUST  GET  HOME 19 

WHERE-AWAY 57 

WHO  BIDES  His  TIME 68 

WRITIN'  BACK  TO  THE  HOME-FOLKS    ,  76 


RILEY  SONGS  OF  HOME 


WE  MUST  GET  HOME 


WE  must   get   home!     How   could   we   stray  like 
this  ?— 

So  far  from  home,  we  know  not  where  it  is,— 
Only  in  some  fair,  apple-blossomy  place 
Of  children's  faces — and  the  mother's  face — 
We  dimly  dream  it,  till  the  vision  clears 
Even  in  the  eyes  of  fancy,  glad  with  tears. 


WE    MUST    GET    HOME 

We  must  get  home — for  we  have  been  away 

So  long,  it  seems  forever  and  a  day ! 

And  O  so  very  homesick  we  have  grown, 

The  laughter  of  the  world  is  like  a  moan 

In  our  tired  hearing,  and  its  song  as  'vain, — 

We  must  get  home — we  must  get  home  again ! 

We  must  get  home !     With  heart  and  soul  we  yearn 
To  find  the  long-lost  pathway,  and  return !    .    .    . 
The  child's  shout  lifted  from  the  questing  band 
Of  old  folk,  faring  weary,  hand  in  hand, 
But  faces  brightening,  as  if  clouds  at  last 
Were  showering  sunshine  on  us  as  we  passed. 

We  must  get  home :    It  hurts  so  staying  here, 
Where  fond  hearts  must  be  wept  out  tear  by  tear, 
And  where  to  wear  wet  lashes  means,  at  best, 
When  most  our  lack,  the  least  our  hope  of  rest- 
When  most  our  need  of  joy,  the  more  our  pain— 
We  must  get  home — we  must  get  home  again ! 


20 


WE    MUST    GET    HOME 

We  must  get  home — home  to  the  simple  things — 
The  morning-glories  twirling  up  the  strings 
And  bugling  color,  as  they  blared  in  blue- 
And-white  o'er  garden-gates  we  scampered  through ; 
The  long  grape-arbor,  with  its  under-shade 
Blue  as  the  green  and  purple  overlaid. 

We  must  get  home :     All  is  so  quiet  there : 
The  touch  of  loving  hands  on  brow  and  hair- 
Dim  rooms,  wherein  the  sunshine  is  made  mild— 
The  lost  love  of  the  mother  and  the  child 
Restored  in  restful  lullabies  of  rain, — 
We  must  get  home — we  must  get  home  again ! 

The  rows  of  sweetcorn  and  the  China  beans 
Beyond  the  lettuce-beds  where,  towering,  leans 
The  giant  sunflower  in  barbaric  pride 
Guarding  the  barn-door  and  the  lane  outside; 
The  honeysuckles,  midst  the  hollyhocks, 
That  clamber  almost  to  the  martin-box. 


WE    MUST    GET    HOME 

We  must  get  home,  where,  as  we  nod  and  drowse, 
Time  humors  us  and  tiptoes  through  the  house, 
And  loves  us  best  when  sleeping  baby-wise, 
With  dreams — not  tear-drops — brimming  our  clenched 

eyes, — 

Pure  dreams  that  know  nor  taint  nor  earthly  stain— 
We  must  get  home — we  must  get  home  again ! 

We  must  get  home !    The  willow-whistle's  call 
Trills  crisp  and  liquid  as  the  waterfall— 
Mocking  the  t fillers  in  the  cherry-trees 
And  making  discord  of  such  rhymes  as  these, 
That  know  nor  lilt  nor  cadence  but  the  birds 
First  warbled — then   all   poets    afterwards. 

We  must  get  home;  and,  unremembering  there 
All  gain  of  all  ambition  otherwhere, 
Rest — from  the  feverish  victory,  and  the  crown 
Of  conquest  whose  waste  glory  weighs  us  down. — 
Fame's  fairest  gifts  we  toss  back  with  disdain — 
We  must  get  home — we  must  get  home  again! 


24 


WE    MUST    GET    HOME 

We  must  get  home  again — we  must — we  must!— 

(Our  rainy  faces  pelted  in  the  dust) 

Creep  back  from  the  vain  quest  through  endless  strife 

To  find  not  anywhere  in  all  of  life 

A  happier  happiness  than  blest  us  then.    .    .    . 

We  must  get  home — we  must  get  home  again! 


JUST  TO  BE  GOOD 

JUST  to  be  good— 
This  is  enough — enough  ! 
O  we  who  find  sin's  billows  wild  and  rough, 
Do  we  not  feel  how  more  than  an}*  gold 
Would  be  the  blameless  life  we  led  of  old 
While  yet  our  lips  knew  but  a  mother's  kiss? 
Ah !  though  we  miss 
All  else  but  this, 

To  be  good  is  enough! 

It  is  enough — 

Enough — just  to  be  good  ! 
To  lift  our  hearts  where  they  are  understood  ; 
To  let  the  thirst  for  worldly  power  and  place 
Go  unappeased ;  to  smile  back  in  God's  face 
With  the  glad  lips  our  mothers  used  to  kiss. 
Ah!  though  we  miss 
All  else  but  this, 

To  be  good  is  enough ! 


26 


MY  FRIEND 

HE  is  my  friend,"  I  said, — 
"Be  patient !"    Overhead 
The  skies  were  drear  and  dim ; 
And  lo !  the  thought  of  him 
Smiled  on  my  heart — and  then 
The  sun  shone  out  again ! 

29 


MY    FRIEND 

"He  is  my  friend!"   The  words 
Brought  summer  and  the  birds ; 
And  all  my  winter-time 
Thawed  into  running  rhyme 
And  rippled  into  song, 
Warm,  tender,  brave  and  strong. 

And  so  it  sings  to-day.— 
So  "may  it  sing  alway! 
Though  waving  grasses  grow 
Between,  and  lilies  blow 
Their  trills  of  perfume  clear 
As  laughter  to  the  ear, 
Let  each  mute  measure  end 
With  "Still  he  is  thv  friend." 


cs 


THINKIN'  BACK 


I'VE  ben  thinkin'  back,  of  late, 
S'prisin' ! — And  I'm  here  to  state 
I'm  suspicious  it's  a  sign 
Of  age,  maybe,  er  decline 
Of  my  faculties, — and  yit 
I'm  not  feclin'  old  a  bit- 
Any  more  than  sixty-four 
Ain't  no  young  man  any  more! 


Thinkin'  back's  a  thing  'at  grows 
On  a  feller,  I  suppose— 
Older  'at  he  gits,  i  jack, 
More  he  keeps  a-thinkin'  back ! 
Old  as  old  men  git  to  be, 
Er  as  middle-aged  as  me, 
Folks' 11  find  us,  eye  and  mind 
Fixed  on  what  we've  left  behind— 
Rehabilitatin'-like 
Them  old  times  we  used  to  hike 
Out  barefooted  fer  the  crick, 
'Long  'bout  Aprilc  first — to  pick 
Out  some  "warmest"  place  to  go 
In  a-swimmin' — Ooh!  my-oh! 
Wonder  now  we  hadn't  died ! 
Grate  horseradish  on  my  hide 
Jes'  a-thinkin'  how  cold  then 
That-'ere  worter  must  'a'  ben ! 

Thinkin'  back — W'y,  goodness  me ! 
I  kin  call  their  names  and  see 
Every  little  tad  I  played 
With,  er  fought,  er  was  afraid 
Of,  and  so  made  //////  the  best 
Friend  I  had  of  all  the  rest! 

32 


THINKIN      BACK 

Thinkin'  back,  I  even  hear 
Them  a-callin',  high  and  clear, 
Up  the  crick-hanks,  where  they  seem 
Still  hid  in  there — like  a  dream— 
And  me  still  a-pantin'  on 
The  green  pathway  they  have  gone ! 
Still  they  hide,  by  bend  er  ford- 
Still  they  hide — but,  thank  the  Lord, 
(Thinkin'  back,  as  I  have  said), 
I  hear  laughin'  on  ahead ! 


35 


NOT    ALWAYS    GLAD    WHEN    WE    SMILE 

WE  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile  : 
Though  we  wear  a  fair  face  and  are  gay, 
And  the  world  we  deceive 
May  not  ever  believe 
We  could  laugh  in  a  happier  way. — 
Yet,  down  in  the  deeps  of  the  soul, 
Ofttimes,  with  our  faces  aglow, 
There's  an  ache  and  a  moan 
That  we  know  of  alone, 
And  as  only  the  hopeless  may  know. 

We  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile, — 
For  the  heart,  in  a  tempest  of  pain, 
May  live  in  the  guise 
Of  a  smile  in  the  eyes 
As  a  rainbow  may  live  in  the  rain ; 
And  the  stormiest  night  of  our  woe 
May  hang  out  a  radiant  star 
Whose  light  in  the  sky 
Of  despair  is  a  lie 
As  black  as  the  thunder-clouds  are. 


NOT    ALWAYS    GLAD    WHEN    WE    SMILE 

We  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile ! 
But  the  conscience  is  quick  to  record, 
All  the  sorrow  and  sin 
We  are  hiding  within 
Is  plain  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord : 
And  ever,  O  ever,  till  pride 

And  evasion  shall  cease  to  defile 
The  sacred  recess 
Of  the  soul,  we  confess 
We  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile. 


HIS  ROOM 

"T  'M  home  again,  my  dear  old  Room, 

A      I'm  home  again,  and  happy,  too, 
As,  peering  through  the  brightening  gloom, 
I  find  myself  alone  with  you: 

Though  brief  my  stay,  nor  far  away, 
I  missed  you — missed  you  night  and  day- 
As  wildly  yearned  for  you  as  now. — 
Old  Room,  how  are  you,  anyhow  ? 

"My  easy  chair,  with  open  arms, 

Awaits  me  just  within  the  door; 
The  littered  carpet's  woven  charms 
Have  never  seemed  so  bright  before,-— 
The  old  rosettes  and  mignonettes 
And  ivy-leaves  and  violets, 
Look  up  as  pure  and  fresh  of  hue 
As  though  baptized  in  morning  dew. 


HIS    ROOM 

"Old  Room,  to  me  your  homely  walls 

Fold  round  me  like  the  arms  of  love, 
And  over  all  my  being  falls 

A  blessing  pure  as  from  above — 
Even  as  a  nestling  child  caressed 
And  lulled  upon  a  loving  breast, 
With  folded  eyes,  too  glad  to  weep 
And  yet  too  sad  for  dreams  or  sleep. 

"You've  been  so  kind  to  me,  old  Room- 
So  patient  in  your  tender  care, 
My  drooping  heart  in  fullest  bloom 
Has  blossomed  for  you  unaware ; 
And  who  but  you  had  cared  to  woo 
A  heart  so  dark,  and  heavy,  too, 
As  in  the  past  you  lifted  mine 
From  out  the  shadow  to  the  shine  ? 

"For  I  was  but  a  wayward  boy 

When  first  you  gladly  welcomed  me 
And  taught  me  work  was  truer  joy 
Than  rioting  incessantly : 

And  thus  the  din  that  stormed  within 

The  old  guitar  and  violin 

Has  fallen  in  a  fainter  tone 

And  sweeter,  for  your  sake  alone, 

39 


HIS    ROOM 
•  ' 

"Though  in  my  absence  I  have  stood 

In  festal  halls  a  favored  guest, 
I  missed,  in  this  old  quietude, 

My  worthy  work  and  worthy  rest — 
By  this  I  know  that  long  ago 
You  loved  me  first,  and  told  me  so 
In  art's  mute  eloquence  of  speech 
The  voice  of  praise  may  never  reach, 

"For  lips  and  eyes  in  truth's  disguise 

Confuse  the  faces  of  my  friends, 
Till  old  affection's  fondest  ties 
I  find  unraveling  at  the  ends; 
But  as  I  turn  to  you,  and  learn 
To  meet  my  griefs  with  less  concern, 
Your  love  seems  all  I  have  to  keep 
Me  smiling  lest  I  needs  must  weep. 

"Yet  I  am  happy,  and  would  fain 

Forget  the  world  and  all  its  woes ; 
So  set  me  to  my  tasks  again, 

Old  Room,  and  lull  me  to  repose : 
And  as  we  glide  adown  the  tide 
Of  dreams,  forever  side  by  side, 
I'll  hold  your  hands  as  lovers  do 
Their  sweethearts'  and  talk  love  to  you." 
40 


THE  PLAINT  HUMAN 

SEASON  of  snows,  and  season  of  flowers. 
Seasons  of  loss  and  gain  !— 
Since  grief  and  joy  must  alike  be  ours, 
Why  do  we  still  complain? 


Ever  our  failing,  from  sun  to  sun, 
O  my  intolerant  brother — 

We  want  just  a  little  too  little  of  one, 
And  much  too  much  of  the  other. 


43 


THE  QUEST 

I   AM  looking  for  Love.    Has  he  passed  this  way, 
With  eyes  as  blue  as  the  skies  of  May, 
And  a  face  as  fair  as  the  summer  dawn  ?— 
You  answer  back,  but  I  wander  on,— 
For  you  say :   "Oh,  yes  ;  but  his  eyes  were  gray, 
And  his  face  as  dim  as  a  rainy  day." 

Good  friends,  I  query,  I  search  for  Love ; 
His  eyes  are  as  blue  as  the  skies  above, 
And  his  smile  as  bright  as  the  midst  of  May 
When  the  truce-bird  pipes :    Has  he  passed  this 

way? 

And  one  says:  "Ay:  but  his  face,  alack! 
Frowned  as  he  passed,  and  his  eyes  were  black." 

O  who  will  tell  me  of  Love?   I  cry! 
His  eyes  are  as  blue  as  the  mid-May  sky, 
And  his  face  as  bright  as  the  morning  sun ; 
And  you  answer  and  mock  me,  every  one, 
That  his  eyes  were  dark,  and  his  face  was  wan, 
And  he  passed  you  frowning  and  wandered  on. 


44 


THE    QUEST 

But  stout  of  heart  will  I  onward  fare, 
Knowing  my  Love  is  beyond — somewhere,— 
The  Love  I  seek,  with  the  eyes  of  blue, 
And  the  bright,  sweet  smile  unknown  of  you  ; 
And  on  from  the  hour  his  trail  is  found 
I  shall  sing  sonnets  the  whole  year  round. 


45 


THE  MULBERRY  TREE 

OIT'S  many's  the  scenes  which   is  dear  to  my 
mind 

As  I  think  of  my  childhood  so  long  left  behind ; 
The  home  of  my  birth,  with  its  old  puncheon-floor, 
And  the  bright  morning-glories  that  growed  round  the 

door ; 

The  warped  clab-board  roof  whare  the  rain  it  run  off 
Into  streams  of  sweet  dreams  as  I  laid  in  the  loft, 
Countin'  all  of  the  joys  that  was  dearest  to  me, 
And  a-thinkiiT  the  most  of  the  mulberry  tree. 

And  to-day  as  I  dream,  with  both  eyes  wide-awake, 
I  can  see  the  old  tree,  and  its  limbs  as  they  shake, 
And  the  long  purple  berries  that  rained  on  the  ground 
Whare  the   pastur'   was  bald   whare  we   trommpt   it 

around. 

And  again,  peekin'  up  through  the  thick  leafy  shade, 
I  can  see  the  glad  smiles  of  the  friends  when  I  strayed 
With  my  little  bare  feet  from  my  own  mother's  knee 
To  f oiler  them  off  to  the  mulberry  tree. 

46 


THE    MULBERRY    TREE 

Leanin'  up  in  the  forks,  I  can  see  the  old  rail, 
And  the  boy  climbin'  up  it,  claw,  tooth,  and  toe-nail, 
And  in  fancy  can  hear,  as  he  spits  on  his  hands, 
The  ring  of  his  laugh  and  the  rip  of  his  pants. 
But  that  rail  led  to  glory,  as  certin  and  shore 
As  I'll  never  climb  thare  by  that  rout'  any  more — 
What  was  all  the  green  lauruls  of  Fame  unto  me, 
With  my  brows  in  the  boughs  of  the  mulberry  tree  ! 

Then  it's  who  can  fergit  the  old  mulberry  tree 

That  he  knowed  in  the  days  when  his  thoughts  was  as 

free 

As  the  flutterin'  wings  of  the  birds  that  flew  out 
Of  the  tall  wavin'  tops  as  the  boys  come  about  ? 
O,  a  crowd  of  my  memories,  laughin'  and  gay, 
Is  a-climbin'  the  fence  of  that  pastur'  to-day, 
And,  a-pantin'  with  joy,  as  us  boys  ust  to  be, 
They  go  racin'  acrost  fer  the  mulberry  tree. 


49 


FOR  YOU 


FOR  yon,  I  could  forget  the  gay 
Delirium  of  merriment, 
And  let  my  laughter  die  away 
In  endless  silence  of  content. 

I  could  forget,  for  your  clear  sake, 
The  utter  emptiness  and  ache 
Of  every  loss  I  ever  knew.— 
What  could  I  not  forget  for  you  ? 


FOR    YOU 

I  could  forget  the  just  deserts 

Of  mine  own  sins,  and  so  erase 
The  tear  that  burns,  the  smile  that  hurts, 
And  all  that  mars  or  masks  my  face. 
For  your  fair  sake  I  could  forget 
The  bonds  of  life  that  chafe  and  fret, 
Nor  care  if  death  were  false  or  true.— 
What  could  I  not  forget  for  you  ? 

What  could  I  not  forget  ?   Ah  me ! 

One  thing,  I  know,  would  still  abide 
Forever  in  my  memory, 

Though  all  of  love  were  lost  beside — 
I  yet  would  feel  how  first  the  wine 
Of  your  sweet  lips  made  fools  of  mine 
Until  they  sung,  all  drunken  through— 
"What  could  I  not  forget  for  you?" 


A  FEEL  IN  THE  CHRIS'MAS-AIR 

T  KEY'S  a  kind  o'  fed  in  the  air,  to  me, 
When  the  Ghris'mas-times  sets  in, 
That's  about  as  much  of  a  mystery 

As  ever  I've  run  ag'in!— 
Fer  instunce,  now,  whilse  I  gain  in  weight 

And  gineral  health,  I  swear 
They's  a  goneness  somers  I  can't  quite  state- 
A  kind  o'  fed  in  the  air. 


I 


A    FEEL    IN    THE    CHRIS  MAS    AIR 

They's  a  feel  in  the  Chris'mas-air  goes  right 

To  the  spot  where  a  man  lives  at  !— 
It  gives  a  feller  a'  appetite — 

They  ain't  no  doubt  about   that!— 
And  yit  they's  somcpin' — I  don't  know  what— 

That   follers  me,  here  and  there, 
And  ha'nts  and  worries  and  spares  me  not— 

A  kind  o'  feel  in  the  air! 

They's  a  fed,  as  I  say,  in  the  air  that's  jest 

As  blame-don  sad  as  sweet  !— 
In  the  same  ra-sho  as  I  feel  the  best 

And -am  spryest  on  my  feet, 
They's  allns  a  kind  o'  sort  of  a'  ache 

That  I  can't  lo-cate  no-where ; — 
Bnt  it  comes  with  Chris' mas,  and  no  mistake !- 

A  kind  o'  feel  in  the  air. 

Is  it  the  racket  the  childern  raise? — 

W'y,  no! — God  bless  'em! — no!— 
Is  it  the  eyes  and  the  cheeks  ablaze— 

Like  my  oi^n  wtiz,  long  ago?— 
Is  it  the  bleat  o'  the  whistle  and  beat 

O'  the  little  toy-drum  and  blare 
O'  the  horn? — No!  no! — it  is  jest  the  sweet— 

The  sad-sweet  feel  in  the  air. 
55 


AS  CREATED 


THERE'S  a  space  for  good  to  bloom  in 
Every  heart  of  man  or  woman,— 
And  however  wild  or  human, 

Or  however  brimmed  with  gall, 
Never  heart  may  beat  without  it  ; 
And  the  darkest  heart  to  doubt  it 
Has  something  good  about  it 

After  all. 


WHERE-AWAY 

OTHE  Lands  of  Where- Away! 
Tell  us — tell  us — where  are  they? 
Through  the  darkness  and  the  dawn 
We  have  journeyed  on  and  on— 
From  the  cradle  to  the  cross — 
From  possession  unto  loss.— 
Seeking  still,  from  day  to  day, 
For  the  Lands  of  Where- Away. 

When  our  baby-fet-t  were  first 
Planted  where  the  daisies  burst, 
And  the  greenest  grasses  grew 
In  the  fields  we  wandered  through, — 
On,   with   childish   discontent, 
Ever  on  and  on  we  went, 
Hoping  still  to  pass,  some  day, 
O'er  the  verge  of  Where- A  way. 


57 


WHERE-AWAY 

Roses  laid  their  velvet  lips 
On  our  own,  with  fragrant  sips; 
But  their  kisses  held  us  not, 
All  their  sweetness  we  forgot ; — 
Though  the  brambles  in  our  track 
Plucked  at  us  to  hold  us  back— 
"Just  ahead,"  we  used  to  say, 
"Lie  the  Lands  of  Where-Away." 

Children  at  the  pasture-bars, 
Through  the  dusk,  like  glimmering  stars, 
Waved  their  hands  that  we  should  bide 
With  them  over  eventide; 
Down  the  dark  their  voices  failed 
Falteringly,  as  they  hailed, 
And  died  into  yesterday- 
Night  ahead  and — Where-Away? 

Twining  arms  about  us  thrown— 
Warm  caresses,  all  our  own, 
Can  but  stay  us  for  a  spell- 
Love  hath  little  new  to  tell 
To  the  soul  in  need  supreme, 
Aching  ever  with  the  dream 
Of  the  endless  bliss  it  may 
Find  in  Lands  of  Where-Away! 

58 


l|Hf 


DREAMER,  SAY 


DREAMER,  say,  will  you  dream  for  me 
A  wild  sweet  dream  of  a  foreign  land, 
Whose  border  sips  of  a  foaming  sea 

With  lips  of  coral  and  silver  sand ; 
Where  warm  winds  loll  on  the  shady  deeps, 

Or  lave  themselves  in  the  tearful  mist 
The  great  wild  wave  of  the  breaker  weeps 
O'er  crags  of  opal  and  amethyst? 

6-1 


DREAMER,    SAY 

Dreamer,  say,  will  you  dream  a  dream 

Of  tropic  shades  in  the  lands  of  shine, 
Where  the  lily  leans  o'er  an  amber  stream 

That  flows  like  a  rill  of  wasted  wine, — 
Where  the  palm-trees,  lifting  their  shields  of  green 

Parry  the  shafts  of  the  Indian  sun 
Whose  splintering  vengeance  falls  between 

The  reeds  below  where  the  waters  run  ? 


Dreamer,  say,  will  you  dream  of  love 

That  lives  in  a  land  of  sweet  perfume, 
Where  the  stars  drip  down  from  the  skies  above 

In  molten  spatters  of  bud  and  bloom? 
Where  never  the  weary  eyes  are  wet, 

And  never  a  sob  in  the  balmy  air, 
And  only  the  laugh  of  the  paroquette 

Breaks  the  sleep  of  the  silence  there? 


62 


OUR  OWN 


THEY  walk  here  with  us,  hand-in-hand 
We  gossip,  knee-by-knee ; 
They  tell  us  all  that  they  have  planned— 

Of  all  their  joys  to  be,— 
And,  laughing,  leave  us :     And,  to-day, 

All  desolate  we  cry 

Across  wide  waves  of  voiceless  graves — 
Good-by  !    Good-by  !    Good-by  ! 


THE  OLD  TRUNDLE-BED 

OTHE  old  trundle-bed  where  I  slept  when  a  boy ! 
What  canopied  king  might  not  covet  the  joy? 
The  glory  and  peace  of  that  slumber  of  mine, 
Like  a  long,  gracious  rest  in  the  bosom  divine : 
The  quaint,  homely  couch,  hidden  close  from  the  light, 
But  daintily  drawn  from  its  hiding  at  night. 
O  a  nest  of  delight,  from  the  foot  to  the  head, 
Was  the  queer  little,  dear  little,  old  trundle-bed  ! 

O  the  old  trundle-bed,  where  I  wondering  saw 
The  stars  through  the  window,  and  listened  with  awe 
To  the  sigh  of  the  winds  as  they  tremblingly  crept 
Through  the  trees  where  the  robin  so  restlessly  slept : 
Wrhere  I  heard  the  low,  murmurous  chirp  of  the  wren, 
And  the  katydid  listlessly  chirrup  again, 
Till  my  fancies  grew  faint  and  were  drowsily  led 
Through  the  maze  of  the  dreams  of  the  old  trundle- 
bed. 


THE    OLD    TRUNDLE-BED 

O  the  old  trundle-bed!     O  the  old  trundle-bed! 
With  its  plump  little  pillow,  and  old-fashioned  spread; 
Its  snowy-white  sheets,  and  the  blankets  above, 
Smoothed  down  and  tucked  round  with  the  touches  of 

love ; 

The  voice  of  my  mother  to  lull  me  to  sleep 
With  the  old  fairy-stories  my  memories  keep 
Still  fresh  as  the  lilies  that  bloom  o'er  the  head 
Once  bowed  o'er  my  own  in  the  old  trundle-bed. 


WHO  BIDES  HIS  TIME 


WHO  bides  his  time,  and  day  by  day 
Faces  defeat  full  patiently, 
And  lifts  a  mirthful  roundelay, 

However  poor  his  fortunes  be,— 
He  will  not  fail  in  any  qualm 

Of  poverty — the  paltry  dime 
It  will  grow  golden  in  his  palm, 
Who  bides  his  time. 


68 


WHO    BIDES    HIS    TIME 

Who  bides  his  time — he  tastes  the  sweet 
Of  honey  in  the  saltest  tear; 

And  though  he  fares  with  slowest  feet, 
Joy  runs  to  meet  him,  drawing  near; 

The  birds  are  heralds  of  his  cause; 
And,  like  a  never-ending  rhyme, 

The  roadsides  bloom  in  his  applause, 
Who  bides  his  time. 

Who  bides  his  time,  and  fevers  not 
In  the  hot  race  that  none  achieves, 

Shall  wear  cool-wreathen  laurel,  wrought 
With  crimson  berries  in  the  leaves ; 

And  he  shall  reign  a  goodly  king, 
And  sway  his  hand  o'er  every  clime, 

With  peace  writ  on  his  signet-ring, 
Who  bides  his  time. 


NATURAL  PERVERSITIES 

I  AM  not  prone  to  moralize 
In  scientific  doubt  - 
On  certain  facts  that  Nature  tries 

To  puzzle  us  about,— 
For  I  am  no  philosopher 
Of  wise  elucidation,  - 
But  speak  of  things  as  they  occur, 
From  simple  observation. 

I  notice  little  things — to  wit  :— 

I  never  missed  a  train 
Because  I  didn't  run  for  it; 

I  never  knew  it  rain 
That  my  umbrella  wasn't  lent, — - 

Or,  when  in  my  possession, 
The  sun  but  wore,  to  all  intent, 

A  jocular  expression. 


70 


w  / 

y  a 


NATURAL    PERVERSITIES 

I  never  knew  a  creditor 

To  dun  me  for  a  debt 
But  I  was  "cramped"  or  "busted;"  or 

I  never  knew  one  yet, 
When  I  had  plenty  in  my  purse, 

To  make  the  least  invasion,— 
As  I,  accordingly  perverse, 

Have  courted  no  occasion. 

Nor  do  I  claim  to  comprehend 

What  Nature  has  in  view 
In  giving  us  the  very   friend 

To  trust  we  oughtn't  to.— 
But  so  it  is :     The  trusty  gun 

Disastrously  exploded 
Is  always  sure  to  be  the  one 

We  didn't  think  was  loaded. 

Our  moaning  is  another's  mirth,— 

And  what  is  worse  by  half, 
We  say  the  funniest  thing  on  earth 

And  never  raise  a  laugh : 
Mid  friends  that  love  us  overwell, 

And  sparkling  jests  and  liquor, 
Our  hearts  somehow  are  liable 

To  melt  in  tears  the  quicker. 
73 


NATURAL    PERVERSITIES 

We  reach  the  wrong  when  most  we  seek 
The  right;  in  like  effect, 

We  stay  the  strong  and  not  the  weak- 
Do  most  when  we  neglect.— 

Neglected  genius — truth  be  said— 
As  wild  and  quick  as  tinder, 

The  more  we  seek  to  help  ahead 
The  more  we  seem  to  hinder. 

I've  known  the  least  the  greatest,  too — 

And,  on  the  selfsame  plan, 
The  biggest  fool  I  ever  knew 

Was  quite  a  little  man : 
We  find  we  ought,  and  then  we  won't— 

We  prove  a  thing,  then  doubt  it,— 
Know  everything  but  when  we  don't 

Know  anything  about  it. 


A  SCRAWL 


I     WANT  to  sing  something  —  but  this  is  all— 
I  try  and  I  try,  but  the  rhymes  are  dull 
As  though  they  were  damp,  and  the  echoes  fall 
Limp  and  unlovable. 

Words  will  not  say  what  I  yearn  to  say— 

They  will  not  walk  as  I  want  them  to, 
But  they  stumble  and  fall  in  the  path  of  the  way 
Of  my  telling  my  love  for  you. 

Simply  take  what  the  scrawl  is  worth- 

Knowing  I  love  you  as  sun  the  sod 
On  the  ripening  side  of  the  great  round  earth 
That  swings  in  the  smile  of  God. 


75 


WRITIN'  BACK  TO  THE  HOME-FOLKS 

MY  clear  old  friends — It  jes  beats  all, 
The  way  you  write  a  letter 
So's  ever'  last  line  beats  the  first, 

And  ever'  iic.rt-un's  better!— 
W'y,  ever'  fool-thing  you  putt  down 

You  make  so  inters/in', 
A  feller,  readin'  of  'em  all, 

Can't  tell  which  is  the  bcst-un. 


It's  all  so  comfortin'  and  good, 

'Pears-like  I  almost  hear  ye 
And  git  more  sociabler,  you  know, 

And  hitch  my  cheer  up  near  ye 
And  jes  smile  on  ye  like  the  sun 

Acrosst  the  whole  per-rairies 
In  Aprile  when  the  thaw's  begun 

And  country  couples  marries. 


WRITIN'  BACK  TO  THE  HOME-FOLKS 

It's  all  so  good-old-fashioned  like 

To  talk  jes  like  we're  tliinkiri, 
Without  no  hidin'  back  o'  fans 

And  giggle-un  and  winkin', 
Ner  sizin'  how  each-other's  dressed — 

Like  some  is  allus  doin',— 
"Is  Marthy  Ellen's  basque  ben  turned 

Er  shore-enough  a  new-un  !"- 

Er  "ef  Steve's  city-friend  haint  jes 

'A  lectle  kindo'-sorto'  ' 
Er  "wears  them-air  blame  eye-glasses 

Jes  'cause  he  hadn't  ort  to?" 
And  so  straight  on,  dad-libitum, 

Tel  all  of  us  feels,  someway, 
Jes  like  our  "comp'ny"  wuz  the  best 

When  we  git  up  to  come  'way ! 

That's  why  I  like  old  friends  like  you, 

Jes  'cause  you're  so  abidin'.— 
Ef  I  was  built  to  live  "fcr  keeps," 

My  principul   residin' 
Would  be  amongst  the  folks  'at  kep' 

Me  allns  thinkln'  of  'em, 
And  sorto'  eechin'  all  the  time 

To  tell  'em  how  I  love  'em. — 

79 


WRITIN     BACK    TO    THE    HOME-FOLKS 

Sich  folks,  you  know,  I  jes  love  so 

I  wouldn't  live  without  'em, 
Er  couldn't  even  drap  asleep 

But  what  I  dreamp'  about  'em,— 
And  ef  we  minded  God,  I  guess 

We'd  all  love  one-another 
Jes  like  one  fam'bly, — me  and  Pap 

And  Madaline  and  Mother. 


LAUGHTER  HOLDING  BOTH  HIS  SIDES 

AY,  them  varlet ! — Laugh  away ! 
All  the  world's  a  holiday! 
Laugh  away,   and  roar  and  shout 
Till  thy  hoarse  tongue  lolleth  out ! 
Bloat  thy  cheeks,  and  bulge  thine  eyes 
Unto  bursting;  pelt  thy  thighs 
With  thy  swollen  palms,  and  roar 
As  thou  never  hast  before! 
Lustier !    wilt  thou  !   peal  on  peal ! 
Stiflest?     Squat  and  grind  thy  heel- 
Wrestle  with  thy  loins,  and  then 
Wheeze  thee  whiles,  and  whoop  again ! 


THE  SOXG  OF  YESTERDAY 


BUT  yesterday 
I  looked  away 

O'er  happy  lands,  where  sunshine  lay 
In  golden  blots 
Inlaid  with  spots 
Of  shade  and  wild  forget-me-nots. 

My  head  was  fair 

With  flaxen  hair, 

And  fragrant  breezes,  faint  and  rare, 

And  warm  with  drouth 

From  out  the  south, 

lUew  all  my  curls  across  my  mouth. 

And,  cool  and  sweet, 

My  naked  feet 

Found  dewy  pathways  through  the  wheat 

And  out  again 

Where,  down  the  lane, 

The  dust  was  dimpled  with  the  rain. 


82 


THE    SONG    OF    YESTERDAY 
II 

But  yesterday  !— 

Adream,  astray, 

From  morning's  red  to  evening's  gray. 

O'er  dales  and  hills 

Of  daffodills 

And  lorn  sweet-fluting  whippoorwills. 

I  knew  nor  cares 

Xor  tears  nor  prayers — 

A  mortal  god,  crowned  unawares 

With  sunset — and 

A  scepter-wand 

Of  apple-blossoms  in  my  hand! 

The  dewy  blue 

Of  twilight  grew 

To  purple,  with  a  star  or  two 

Whose  lisping  rays 

Failed  in  the  blaze 

Of  sudden  fireflies  through  the  haze. 


THE    SOXG    OF    YESTERDAY 
III 

But  yesterday 

I  heard  the  lay 

Of  summer  birds,  when  I,  as  they 

With  breast  and  wing, 

All  quivering 

With  life  and  love,  could  only  sing. 

My  head  was  lent 

Where,  with  it,  blent 

A  maiden's  o'er  her  instrument; 

While  all  the  night, 

From  vale  to  height, 

Was  filled  with  echoes  of  delight. 

And  all  our  dreams 

Were  lit  with  gleams 

Of  that  lost  land  of  reedy  streams, 

Along  whose  brim 

Forever  swim 

Pan's  lilies,  laughing  up  at  him. 


86 


THE    SONG    OF    YESTERDAY 


IV 


But  yesterday !    .    .    , 

O  blooms  of  May, 

And  summer  roses — where-away  ? 

O  stars  above ; 

And  lips  of  love, 

And  all  the  honeyed  sweets  thereof  !- 

O  lad  and  lass, 

And  orchard  pass, 

And  briered  lane,  and  daisied  grass! 

O  gleam  and  gloom, 

And  woodland  bloom. 

And  breezy  breaths  of  all  perfume  !— 

No  more  for  me 

Or  mine  shall  be 

Thy  raptures — save  in  memory, — 

No  more — no  more — 

Till  through  the  Door 

Of  Glory  gleam  the  days  of  yore. 


SOXG  OF  PARTING 

SAY   farewell,   and  let  me  go; 
Shatter  every  vow ! 
All  the  future  can  bestow 
Will  be  welcome  now ! 

And  if  this  fair  hand  I  touch 
I  have  worshipped  overmuch, 
It  was  my  mistake — and  so, 
Say  farewell,  and  let  me  go. 


90 


SONG    OF    PARTING 

Say  farewell,  and  let  me  go : 

Murmur  no  regret, 
Stay  your  tear-drops  ere  they  flow- 
Do  not  waste  them  yet ! 

They  might  pour  as  pours  the  rain. 
And  not  wash  away  the  pain : 
I  have  tried  them  and  I  know.— 
Say  farewell,  and  let  me  go. 

Say  farewell,  and  let  me  go : 

Think  me  not  untrue — 
True  as  truth  is,  even  so 
I  am  true  to  you ! 

If  the  ghost  of  love  may  stay 
Where  my  fond  heart  dies  to-day, 
I  am  with  you  alway — so, 
Say  farewell,  and  let  me  go. 


OUR  KIND  OF  A  MAN 


I 


THE  kind  of  a  man  for  you  and  me! 
He  faces  the  world  unflinchingly, 
And  smites,  as  long  as  the  wrong  resists, 
With  a  knuckled  faith  and  force  like  fists : 
He  lives  the  life  he  is  preaching  of, 
And  loves  where  most  is  the  need  of  love; 
His  voice  is  clear  to  the  deaf  man's  ears, 
And  his  face  sublime  through  the  blind  man's  tears 
The  light  shines  out  where  the  clouds  were  dim, 
And  the  widow's  prayer  goes  up  for  him ; 
The  latch  is  clicked  at  the  hovel  door 
And  the  sick  man  sees  the  sun  once  more, 
And  out  o'er  the  barren  fields  he  sees 
Springing  blossoms  and  waving  trees, 
Feeling  as  only  the  dying  may, 
That  God's  own  servant  has  come  that  way, 
Smoothing  the  path  as  it  still  winds  on 
Through  the  Golden  Gate  where  his  loved  have  gone. 


92 


OUR    KIND    OF    A    MAN 


IT 


The  kind  of  a  man  for  me  and  you ! 

However  little  of  worth  we  do 

Me  credits  full,  and  abides  in  trust 

That  time  will  teach  us  how  more  is  just. 

He  walks  abroad,  and  he  meets  all  kinds 

Of  querulous  and  uneasy  minds, 

And,  sympathizing,  he  shares  the  pain 

Of  the  doubts  that  rack  us,  heart  and  brain ; 

And,  knowing  this,  as  we  grasp  his  hand, 

We  are  surely  coming  to  understand ! 

He  looks  on  sin  with  pitying  eyes — 

E'en    as  the  Lord,  since  Paradise,— 

Else,  should  we  read,  "Though  our  sins  should  glow 

As  scarlet,  they  shall  be  white  as  snow"? — 

And,  feeling  still,  with  a  grief  half  glad, 

That  the  bad  are  as  good  as  the  good  are  bad, 

He  strikes  straight  out  for  the  Right — and  he 

Is  the  kind  of  a  man  for  you  and  me! 


93 


"HOW  DID  YOU  REST,  LAST  NIGHT?" 

HOW  did  you  rest,  last  night ?"- 
I've  heard  my  gran'pap  say 
Them  words  a  thousand  times — that's  right — 

Jes  them  words  thataway! 
As  punctchul-like  as  morning  dast 

To  ever  heave  in  sight 
Gran'pap  'ud  allus  haf  to  ast— 
"How  did  you  rest,  last  night  ?" 


94 


:iF, 


"HOW    DID    YOU    REST,    LAST    NIGHT?" 

Us  young-uns  used  to  grin, 

At  breakfast,  on  the  sly, 
And  mock  the  wobble  of  his  chin 

And  eyebrows  helt  so  high 
And  kind:     "How  did  you  rest,  lost  night?" 

We'd  mumble  and  let  on 
Our  voices  trimbled,  and  our  sight 

Was  dim,  and  hearin'  gone. 


Bad  as  I  used  to  be, 

All  I'm  a-wantin'  is 
As  puore  and  ca'm  a  sleep  fer  me 

And  sweet  a  sleep  as  his ! 
And  so  I  pray,  on  Jedgment  Day 

To  wake,  and  with  its  light 
See  his  face  dawn,  and  hear  him  say- 

"How  did  you  rest,  last  night?" 


97 


OUT  OF  THE  HITHERWHERE 


OUT  of  the  hitherwhere  into  the  Yon— 
The  land  that  the  Lord's  love  rests  upon  ; 
Where  one  may  rely  on  the  friends  he  meets, 
And  the  smiles  that  greet  him  along  the  streets 

o  o 

Where  the  mother  that  left  you  years  ago 
Will  lift  the  hands  that  were  folded  so, 
And  put  them  about  you,  with  all  the  love 
And  tenderness  you  are  dreaming  of. 

98 


OUT    OF    THE    HITHERWHERE 

Out  of  the  hitherwhere  into  the  Yon — 

Where  all  of  the  friends  of  your  youth  have  gone,- 

Where  the  old  schoolmate  that  laughed  with  you, 

Will  laugh  again  as  he  used  to  do, 

Running  to  meet  you,  with  such  a  face 

As  lights  like  a  moon  the  wondrous  place 

Where  God  is  living,  and  glad  to  live, 

Since  He  is  the  Master  and  may  forgive. 

Out  of  the  hitherwhere  into  the  Yon  !— 

Stay  the  hopes  we  are  leaning  on— 

You,  Divine,  with  Your  merciful  eyes 

Looking  down  from  the  far-away  skies,— 

Smile  upon  us,  and  reach  and  take 

Our  worn  souls  Home  for  the  old  home's  sake.— 

And  so  Amen, — for  our  all  seems  gone 

Out  of  the  hitherwhere  into  the  Yon. 


I 


99 


JACK-IN-THE-BOX 

(Grandfather,  musing.'] 

IX  childish  days!    O  memory, 
You  bring  such  curious  things  to  me  !- 
Laughs  to  the  lip — tears  to  the  eye, 
In  looking  on  the  gifts  that  lie 
Like  broken  playthings  scattered  o'er 
Imagination's  nursery  floor! 
Did  these  old  hands  once  click  the  key 
That  let  "Jack's"  box-lid  upward  fly, 
And  that  blear-eyed,  fur-whiskered  elf 
Leap,  as  though  frightened  at  himself, 
And  quiveringly  lean  and  stare 
At  me,  his  jailer,  laughing  there? 

100 


JACK-IN-THE-BOX 

A  child  then !   Now — I  only  know 

They  call  me  very  old ;  and  so 

They  will  not  let  me  have  my  way, — 

But  uselessly  I  sit  all  clay 

Here  by  the  chimney- jamb,  and  poke 

The  lazy  fire,  and  smoke  and  smoke, 

And  watch  the  wreaths  swoop  up  the  flue, 

And  chuckle — ay,  I  often  do — 

Seeing  again,  all  vividly, 

Jack-in-the-box  leap,  as  in  glee 

To  see  how  much  he  looks  like  me ! 

.    .    .    They  talk.   I  can't  hear  what  they  say- 
But  I  am  glad,  clean  through  and  through 
Sometimes,  in  fancying  that  they 
Are  saying,  "Sweet,  that  fancy  strays 
In  age  back  to  our  childish  days!" 


103 


THE  BOYS 

WHERE  are  they? — the  friends  of  my  childhood 
enchanted — 

The  clear,  laughing  eyes  looking  back  in  my  own, 
And   the   warm,    chubby   fingers   my   palms   have    so 

wanted, 
As  when  we  raced  over 

Pink  pastures  of  clover, 

And   mocked    the   quail's   whir   and    the    bumblebee's 
drone  ? 

Have  the  breezes  of  time  blown  their  blossomy  faces 
Forever  adrift  down  the  years  that  are  flown? 

Am  I  never  to  see  them  romp  back  to  their  places, 
Where  over  the  meadow, 

In  sunshine  and  shadow, 

The  meadow-larks  trill,  and  the  bumblebees  drone  ? 

Where  are  they  ?    Ah !  dim  in  the  dust  lies  the  clover ; 

The  whippoorwill's  call  has  a  sorrowful  tone, 
And  the  dove's — I  have  wept  at  it  over  and  over ; — 

I  want  the  glad  luster 

Of  youth,  and  the  cluster 
Of  faces  asleep  where  the  bumblebees  drone ! 

104 


IT'S  GOT  TO  BE 


WHEN  it's  got  to  be," — like  I  always  say, 
As  I  notice  the  years  whiz  past, 
And  know  each  clay  is  a  yesterday, 

When  we  size  it  up,  at  last,— 
Same  as  I  said  when  my  boyhood  went 

And  I  knowed  we  had  to  quit,— 
"It's  got  to  be,  and  it's  goin  to  be!"- 
So  I  said  "Good-by"  to  it. 


It's  got  to  be,  and  it's  goin  to  be! 

So  at  least  I  always  try 
To  kind  o'  say  in  a  hearty  way, — - 

"Well,  it's  got  to  be.    Good-by  !" 


107 


IT  S    GOT    TO    BE 

The  time  jes  melts  like  a  late,  last  snow, — 

When  it's  got  to  be,  it  melts ! 
But  I  aim  to  keep  a  cheerful  mind, 

Ef  I  can't  keep  nothin'  else! 
I  knowed,  when  I  come  to  twenty-one, 

That  I'd  soon  be  twenty-two, — 
So  I  waved  one  hand  at  the  soft  young  man, 

And  I  said,  "Good-by  to  you!" 

It's  got  to  be,  and  it's  goin'  to  be! 

So  at  least  I  always  try 
To  kind  o'  say,  in  a  cheerful  way, — 

"Well,  it's  got  to  be.— Good-by !" 

They  kep'  a-goin',  the  years  and  years, 

Yet  still  I  smiled  and  smiled, — 
For  I'd  said  "Goocl-by"  to  my  single  life, 

And  I  now  had  a  wife  and  child : 
Mother  and  son  and  the  father — one,— 

Till,  last,  on  her  bed  of  pain, 
She  jes'  smiled  up,  like  she  always  clone,— 

And  I  said  "Good-by"  again. 

It's  got  to  be,  and  it's  goin'  to  be! 

So  at  least  I  always  try 
To  kind  o'  say,  in  a  humble  way, — 

"Well,  it's  got  to  be.   Good-by!" 
108 


IT'S    GOT    TO    BE 

And  then  my  boy — as  he  growed  to  be 

Almost  a  man  in  size, — 
Was  more  than  a  pride  and  joy  to  me, 

With  his  mother's  smilin'  eyes.— 
He  gimme  the  slip,  when  the  War  broke  out, 

And  followed  me.    And  I 
Never  knowed  till  the  first  fight's  end    .    .    . 

I  found  him,  and  then,    .    .    .    "Goocl-by." 

It's  got  to  be,  and  it's  goln'  to  be ! 

So  at  least  I  always  try 
To  kind  o'  say,  in  a  patient  way, 

"Well,  it's  got  to  be.    Goocl-by!" 

I  have  said,  "Goocl-by! — Goocl-by! — Good-by!' 

With  my  very  best  good  will, 
All  through  life  from  the  first, — and  I 

Am  a  cheerful  old  man  still : 
But  it's  got  to  end,  and  it's  goln'  to  end! 

And  this  is  the  thing  I'll  do,— 
With  my  last  breath  I  will  laugh,  O  Death, 

And  say  "Good-by"  to  you!    .    .    . 

It's  got  to  be  !    And  again  I  say,— 
When  his  old  scythe  circles  high, 

I'll  laugh — of  course,  in  the  kindest  way, — 
As  I  say  "Good-by  !— Good-by !" 
in 


-OUT    OF    REACH?" 

YOU  think  them  "out  of  reach,"  your  dead  ? 
Nay,  by  my  own  dead,  I  deny 
Your  "out  of  reach."— Be  comforted: 
Tis  not  so  far  to  die. 

O  by  their  dear  remembered  smiles 

And  outheld  hands  and  welcoming  speech, 

They  wait  for  us,  thousands  of  miles 
This  side  of  "out-of-reach." 


112 


"A    BRAVE    REFRAIN" 

WHEN  snow  is  here,  and  the  trees  look  weird, 
And  the  knuckled  twigs  are  gloved  with  froct 
When  the  breath  congeals  in  the  drover's  beard, 

And  the  old  pathway  to  the  barn  is  lost ; 
When  the  rooster's  crow  is  sad  to  hear, 

And  the  stamp  of  the  stabled  horse  is  vain, 
And  the  tone  of  the  cow-bell  grieves  the  ear — 
O  then  is  the  time  for  a  brave  refrain ! 


When  the  gears  hang  stiff  on  the  harness-peg, 

And  the  tallow  gleams  in  frozen  streaks; 
And  the  old  hen  stands  on  a  lonesome  leg, 

And  the  pump  sounds  hoarse  and  the  handle  squeaks  ; 
When  the  woodpile  lies  in  a  shrouded  heap, 

And  the  frost  is  scratched  from  the  window-pane 
And  anxious  eyes  from  the  inside  peep — 

O  then  is  the  time  for  a  brave  refrain! 

When  the  ax-helve  warms  at  the  chimney- jamb, 

And  hob-nailed  shoes  on  the  hearth  below, 
And  the  house-cat  curls  in  a  slumber  calm, 

And  the  eight-day  clock  ticks  loud  and  slow ; 
When  the  harsh  broom-handle  jabs  the  ceil 

'Neath  the  kitchen-loft,  and  the  drowsy  brain 
Sniffs  the  breath  of  the  morning  meal— 

O  then  is  the  time  for  a  brave  refrain! 

ENVOI 

When  the  skillet  seethes,  and  a  blubbering  hot 
Tilts  the  lid  of  the  coffee-pot, 

And  the  scent  of  the  buckwheat  cake  grows  plain— 
O  then  is  the  time  for  a  brave  refrain! 


114 


IN  THE  EVENING 


IN  the  evening  of  our  days, 
When  the  first  far  stars  above 
Glimmer  dimmer,  through  the  haze, 

Than  the  dewy  eyes  of  love, 
Shall  we  mournfully  revert 

To  the  vanished  morns  and  Mays 
Of  our  youth,  with  hearts  that  htirt,- 
In  the  evening  of  our  days? 


ii 


IN    THE    EVENING 


II 


Shall  the  hand  that  holds  your  own 
Till  the  twain  are  thrilled  as  now, 

Be  withheld,  or  colder  grown? 
Shall  my  kiss  upon  your  brow 

Falter  from  its  high  estate? 
And,  in  all  forgetful  ways, 

Shall  we  sit  apart  and  wait- 
In  the  evening  of  our  days? 

Ill 

Nay,  my  wife — my  life! — the  gloom 

Shall  enfold  us  velvet  wise, 
And  my  smile  shall  be  the  groom 

Of  the  gladness  of  your  eyes: 
Gently,  gently  as  the  dew 

Mingles  with  the  darkening  maze, 
I  shall  fall  asleep  with  you— 

In  the  evening  of  our  days. 


116 


JIM 


HE  was  jes  a  plain,  ever -day,  all-round  kind  of  a 
jour., 

Consumpted-lookin' — but  la  ! 
The  jokiest,  wittiest,  story-tellin',  song-singin',  laugh- 

in'est,  jolliest 
Feller  you  ever  saw ! 
Worked  at  jes  coarse  work,  but  you  kin  bet  he  was  fine 

enough  in  his  talk, 
And  his  f eelin's,  too ! 
Lordy!  ef  he  was  on'y  back  on  his  bench  ag'in  to-day, 

a-carryin'  on 
Like  he  ust  to  do! 


117 


JIM 

Any  shop-mate'll  tell  you  there  never  was,  on  top  o1 

dirt, 

A  better  f eller'n  Jim ! 
You  want  a  favor,  and  couldn't  git  it  anywheres  else — 

You  could  git  it  o'  him ! 
Most   free-heartedest  man  thataway   in  the  world,   I 

guess ! 

Give  up  ever'  nickel  he's  worth— 
And,  ef  you'd  a-wanted  it,  and  named  it  to  him,  and  it 

was  his, 
He'd  a-give  you  the  earth ! 

Allus  a-reachin'  out,  Jim  was,  and  a-he'ppin'  some 

Pore  feller  onto  his  feet — 
He'd  a-never  a-keered  how  hungry  he  was  hisse'f, 

So's  the  feller  got  somepin'  to  eat ! 
Didn't  make  no  difference  at  all  to  him  how  he  was 
dressed, 

He  ust  to  say  to  me,— 

"You  togg  out  a  tramp  purty  comfortable  in  winter 
time,  a-huntin'  a  job, 

And  he'll  git  along!"  says  he. 


118 


JIM 

Jim  didn't  have,  ner  never  could  git  ahead,  so  overly 

much 

O'  this  world's  goods  at  a  time.— 
'Fore  now  I've  saw  him,  more'n  onc't,  lend  a  dollar, 

and  haf  to,  more'n  like, 
Turn  round  and  borry  a  dime ! 

Mebby  laugh  and  joke  about  it  hisse'f  fer  a  while- 
then  jerk  his  coat, 
And  kindo'  square  his  chin, 

Tie  on  his  apern,  and  squat  hisse'f  on  his  old  shoe- 
bench, 
And  go  to  peggin'  ag'in ! 

Patientest  feller,  too,  I  reckon,  'at  ever  jes  natchurly 

Coughed  hisse'f  to  death! 

Long  enough  after  his  voice  was  lost  he'd  laugh  in  a 
whisper  and  say 

He  could  git  ever'thing  but  his  breath— 
"You  fellers,"  he'd  sorto'  twinkle  his  eyes  and  say, 

"Is  a-pilin'  onto  me 

A  mighty  big  debt  fer  that-air  little  weak-chested  ghost 
o'  mine  to  pack 

Through  all  Eternity!" 


121 


JIM 

Now  there  was  a  man  'at  jes  'pcared-like,  to  me, 

'At  ortn't  a-ncTcr  a-diecl ! 
"But  death  hain't  a-showin'  no  favors,"  the  old  boss 

said— 

"On'y  to  Jim  r  and  cried : 
And  Wigger,  who  puts  up  the  best  sewcd-work  in  the 

shop — 

Er  the  whole  blame  neighborhood,— 
He  says,  "When  God  made  Jim,  I  bet  you  He  didn't  do 

anything  else  that  day 
But  jes  set  around  and  feel  good!" 


122 


THE  BEST  IS  GOOD  ENOUGH 

I    QUARREL  not  with  Destiny, 
But  make  the  best  of  everything — 
The  best  is  good  enough  for  me. 

Leave  Discontent  alone,  and  she 
Will  shut  her  mouth  and  let  you  sing. 
I  quarrel  not  with  Destiny. 

I  take  some  things,  or  let  'ern  be — 
Good  gold  has  always  got  the  ring; 
The  best  is  good  enough  for  me. 


123 


THE    BEST    IS    GOOD    ENOUGH 

Since  Fate  insists  on  secrecy, 
I  have  no  arguments  to  bring — 
I  quarrel  not  with  Destiny. 

The  fellow  that  goes  "haw"  for  "gee" 
Will  find  he  hasn't  got  full  swing. 
The  best  is  good  enough  for  me. 

One  only  knows  our  needs,  and  He 
Does  all  of  the  distributing. 
I  quarrel  not  with  Destiny; 
The  best  is  good  enough  for  me. 


124 


HONEY  DRIPPING  FROM  THE  COMB 


H 


OW  slight  a  thing  may  set  one's  fancy  drifting 
Upon  the  dead  sea  of  the  Past ! — A  view — 


Sometimes  an  odor — or  a  rooster  lifting 
A  far-off  "Ooii!    ooh-ooh!" 


And  suddenly  we  find  ourselves  astray 

In  some  wood's-pasture  of  the  Long  Ago— 
Or  idly  dream  again  upon  a  day 
Of  rest  we  used  to  know. 

I  bit  an  apple  but  a  moment  since — 

A  wilted  apple  that  the  worm  had  spurned,- 
Yet  hidden  in  the  taste  were  happy  hints 
Of  good  old  day?  returned.— 

And  so  my  heart,  like  some  enraptured  lute, 

Tinkles  a  tune  so  tender  and  complete. 
God's  blessing  must  be  resting  on  the  fruit- 
So  bitter,  yet  so  sweet! 


125 


AS  MY  UNCLE  USED  TO  SAY 

I'VE  thought  a  power  on  men  and  things, 
As  my  uncle  ust  to  say,— 
And  ef  folks  don't  work  as  they  pray,  i  jings ! 

W'y,  they  ain't  no  use  to  pray ! 
Ef  you  want  somepin',  and  jes  dead-set 
A-pleadin'  fer  it  with  both  eyes  wet, 
And  tears  won't  bring  it,  w'y,  you  try  sweat, 
As  my  uncle  ust  to  say. 

They's  some  don't  know  their  A,  B,  C's, 

As  my  uncle  ust  to  say, 
And  yit  don't  waste  no  candle-grease, 

Ner  whistle  their  lives  away ! 
But  ef  they  can't  write  no  book,  ner  rhyme 
No  singin'  song  fer  to  last  all  time, 
They  can  blaze  the  way  fer  the  march  sublime, 

As  my  uncle  ust  to  say. 

126 


m 


AS    MY    UNCLE    USED    TO    SAY 

Whoever's  Foreman  of  all  things  here, 

As  my  uncle  list  to  say, 
He  knows  each  job  'at  we're  best  fit  fer, 

And  our  round-up,  night  and  day : 
And  a-sizin'  His  work,  east  and  west, 
And  north  and  south,  and  worst  and  best, 
I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  suggest, 

As  my  uncle  ust  to  say. 


*3 


129 


WE  MUST  BELIEVE 

"Lord,  I  believe:  help  Thou  mine  unbelief  f 

WE  must  believe — 
Being  from  birth  endowed  with  love  and  trust- 
Born  unto  loving; — and  how  simply  just 
That  love — that  faith  ! — even  in  the  blossom- face 
The  babe  drops  dreamward  in  its  resting-place, 
Intuitively  conscious  of  the  sure 
Awakening  to  rapture  ever  pure 
And  sweet  and  saintly  as  the  mother's  own, 
Or  the  awed  father's,  as  his  arms  are  thrown 
O'er  wife  and  child,  to  round  about  them  weave 

And  wind  and  bind  them  as  one  harvest-sheaf 
Of  love — to  cleave  to,  and  forever  cleave. 
Lord,  I  believe : 

Help  Thou  mine  unbelief. 

We  must  believe — 

Impelled  since  infancy  to  seek  some  clear 
Fulfilment,  still  withheld  all  seekers  here; — 
For  never  have  we  seen  perfection  nor 
The  glory  we  are  ever  seeking  for : 


130 


WE    MUST    BELIEVE 

But  we  have  seen — all  mortal  souls  as  one — 
Have  seen  its  promise,  in  the  morning  sun — 
Its  blest  assurance,  in  the  stars  of  night;— 
The  ever-dawning  of  the  dark  to  light; — 
The  tears  down- falling  from  all  eyes  that  grieve — 

The  eyes  uplifting  from  all  deeps  of  grief, 
Yearning  for  what  at  last  we  shall  receive. 
Lord,  I  believe : 

Help  Thou  mine  unbelief. 

We  must  believe — 

For  still  all  unappeased  our  hunger  goes, 

From  life's  first  waking,  to  its  last  repose: 

The  briefest  life  of  any  babe,  or  man 

Outwearing  even  the  allotted  span, 

Is  each  a  life  unfinished — incomplete: 

For  these,  then,  of  th'  outworn,  or  unworn  feet 

Denied  one  toddling  step —  O  there  must  be 

Some  fair,  green,  flowery  pathway  endlessly 

Winding  through  lands  Elysian  !  Lord,  receive 

And  lead  each  as  Thine  Own  Child — even  the  Chief 
Of  us  who  didst  Immortal  life  achieve.     . 
Lord,  I  believe : 

Help  Thou  mine  unbelief. 


A  GOOD  MAN 


I 


A  GOOD  man  never  dies— 
In  worthy  deed  and  prayer 
And  helpful  hands,  and  honest  eyes, 

If  smiles  or  tears  be  there: 
Who  lives  for  you  and  me — 

Lives  for  the  world  he  tries 
To  help — he  lives  eternally. 
A  good  man  never  dies. 


II 


Who  lives  to  bravely  take 
His  share  of  toil  and  stress, 

And,  for  his  weaker  fellows'  sake, 
Makes  every  burden  less,— 

He  may,  at  last,  seem  worn- 
Lie  fallen — hands  and  eyes 

Folded — yet,  though  we  mourn  and  mourn, 
A  good  man  never  dies. 


132 


: 


til 


-'„, 


THE  OLD  DAYS 


THE  old  days — the  far  clays— 
The  overdear  and  fair! — • 
The  old  days — the  lost  days — 

How  lovely  they  were ! 
The  old  days  of  Morning, 

With  the  dew-drench  on  the  flowers 
And  apple-buds  and  blossoms 
Of  those  old  days  of  ours. 

135 


THE    OLD    DAYS 

Then  was  the  real  gold 

Spendthrift  Summer  flung; 
Then  was  the  real  song 

Bird  or  Poet  sung! 
There  was  never  censure  then,— 

Only  honest  praise — 
And  all  things  were  worthy  of  it 

In  the  old  days. 

There  bide  the  true  friends — 

The  first  and  the  best ; 
There  clings  the  green  grass 

Close  where  they  rest : 
Would  they  were  here  ?  Xo ; — 

Would  7cv  were  there!     .     . 
The  old  days — the  lost  days — 

How  lovelv  they  were ! 


A  SPRING  SOXG  AND  A  LATER 

SHE  sang  a  song  of  May  for  me, 
Wherein  once  more  I  heard 
The  mirth  of  my  glad  infancy— 

The  orchard's  earliest  bird— 
The  joyous  breeze  among  the  trees 

New-clad  in  leaf  and  bloom, 

And  there  the  happy  honey-bees 

In  dewy  gleam  and  gloom. 


So  purely,  sweetly  on  the  sense 

Of  heart  and  spirit  fell 
Her  song  of  Spring,  its  influence — 

Still  irresistible,— 
Commands  me  here — with  eyes  ablur- 

To  mate  her  bright  refrain, 
Though  I  but  shed  a  rhyme  for  her 

As  dim  as  Autumn  rain. 

137 


KNEELING  WITH  HERRICK 

DEAR  Lord,  to  Thee  my  knee  is  bent- 
Give  me  content— 
Full-pleasured  with  what  comes  to  me, 

Whate'er  it  be : 
An  humble  roof — a  frugal  board, 

And  simple  hoard ; 
The  wintry  fagot  piled  beside 

The  chimney  wide, 
While  the  enwreathing  flames  up-sprout 

And  twine  about 
The  brazen  dogs  that  guard  my  hearth 

And  household  worth. : 
Tinge  with  the  ember's  ruddy  glow 

The  rafters  low ; 
And  let  the  sparks  snap  with  delight, 

As  fingers  might 
That  mark  deft  measures  of  some  tune 

The  children  croon : 
Then,  with  good  friends,  the  rarest  few 

Thou  boldest  true, 
Ranged  round  about  the  blaze,  to  share 

My  comfort  there, — • 
Give  me  to  claim  the  service  meet 

That  makes  each  seat 
A  place  of  honor,  and  each  guest 

Loved  as  the  rest. 

138 


THE  RAINY  MORNIXG 


THE  dawn  of  the  day  was  dreary, 
And  the  lowering  clouds  o'erhead 
Wept  in  a  silent  sorrow 

Where  the  sweet  sunshine  lay  dead  ; 
And  a  wind  came  out  of  the  eastward 

Like  an  endless  sigh  of  pain, 
And  the  leaves  fell  down  in  the  pathway 
And  writhed  in  the  falling  rain. 


141 


THE    RAINY    MORNING 

I  had  tried  in  a  brave  endeavor 

To  chord  my  harp  with  the  sun,' 
But  the  strings  would  slacken  ever, 

And  the  task  was  a  weary  one : 
And  so,  like  a  child  impatient 

And  sick  of  a  discontent, 
I  bowed  in  a  shower  of  teardrops 

And  mourned  with  the  instrument. 

And  lo !  as  I  bowed,  the  splendor 

Of  the  sun  bent  over  me, 
With  a  touch  as  warm  and  tender 

As  a  father's  hand  might  be : 
And  even  as  I  felt  its  presence, 

My  clouded  soul  grew  bright, 
And  the  tears,  like  the  rain  of  mornin; 

Melted  in  mists  of  light. 


142 


*+ 


REACH  YOUR  HAND  TO  ME 


REACH  your  hand  to  me,  my  friend, 
With  its  heartiest  caress — 
Sometime  there  will  come  an  end 
To  its  present  faithfulness — 
Sometime  I  may  ask  in  vain 
For  the  touch  of  it  again, 
When  between  us  land  or  sea 
Holds  it  ever  back  from  me. 

'43 


REACH    YOUR    HAND    TO    ME 

Sometime  I  may  need  it  so, 

Groping  somewhere  in  the  night, 
It  will  seem  to  me  as  though 
Just  a  touch,  however  light, 

Would  make  all  the  darkness  day, 
And  along  some  sunny  way 
Lead  me  through  an  April-shower 
Of  my  tears  to  this  fair  hour. 

O  the  present  is  too  sweet 

To  go  on  forever  thus ! 
Round  the  corner  of  the  street 
Who  can  say  what  waits  for  us  ?— 
Meeting — greeting,  night  and  day, 
Faring  each  the  selfsame  way- 
Still  somewhere  the  path  must  end.— 
Reach  your  hand  to  me,  my  friend ! 


144 


TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND,  WILLIAM  LEACHMAN 

FER  forty  year  and  better  you  have  been  a  friend 
to  me, 

Through  days  of  sore  afflictions  and  dire  adversity, 
You  allus  had  a  kind  word  of  counsul  to  impart, 
Which  was  like  a  healin'  'intment  to  the  sorrow  of  my 
hart. 

When  I  burried  my  first  womern,  William  Leachman, 

it  was  you 

Had  the  only  consolation  that  I  could  listen  to — 
Fer  I  knowed  you  had  gone  through  it  and  had  rallied 

from  the  blow, 
And  when  you  said  I'd  do  the  same,  I  knowed  you'd 

ort  to  know. 


T45 


TO    MY    OLD    FRIEND,    WILLIAM    LEACH  MAN 

But  that  time  I'll  long  remember;  how  I  wundered 

here  and  I  hare — 
Through  the  settin'-room  and  kitchen,  and  out  in  the 

open  air — 
And  the  snowflakes  whirlin',  whirliir,  and  the  fields  a 

frozen  glare, 
And   the   neghbors'    sleds    and   wagons   congergatin' 

ev'rywhare. 

I  turned  my  eyes  to'rds  heaven,  but  the  sun  was  hid 

away ; 
I  turned  my  eyes  to'rds  earth  again,  but  all  was  cold 

and  gray ; 
And  the  clock,  like  ice  a-crackin',  clickt  the  icy  hours 

in  two — 
And  my  eyes'd  never  thawed  out  ef  it  hadn't  been  fer 

you! 

We  set  thare  by  the  smoke-house — me  and  you  out 

thare  alone — 

Me  a-thinkin' — you  a-talkin'  in  a  soothin'  undertone — 
You  a-talkin' — me  a-thinkin'  of  the  summers  long  ago, 
And  a-writin'  "Marthy — Marthy"  with  my  finger  in 

the  snow ! 


146 


TO    MY    OLD    FRIEND,    WILLIAM    LEACHMAN 

William  Leachnian,  I  can  see  you  jest  as  plane  as  I 

could  then  ; 
And  your  hand  is  on  my  shoulder,  and  you  rouse  me  up 

again , 
And  I  see  the  tears  a-drippin'  from  your  own  eyes,  as 

you  say : 
"Be  rickoncilecl  and  bear  it — we  but  linger  fer  a  day !" 

At  the  last  Old  Settlers'  Meetin'  we  went  j'intly,  you 

and  me — 

Your  bosses  and  my  wagon,  as  you  wanted  it  to  be ; 
And  sence  I  can  remember,  from  the  time  we've  negh- 

bored  here, 
In  all  sich  friendly  actions  you  have  double-done  your 

sheer. 

It  was  better  than  the  meetin',  too,  that  nine-mile  talk 

we  had 
Of  the  times  when  we  first  settled  here  and  travel  was 

so  bad ; 
When  we  had  to  go  on  hoss-back,  and  sometimes  on 

"Shanks's  mare," 
And  "blaze"  a  road  fer  them  behind  that  had  to  travel 

thare. 


149 


TO    MY    OLD    FRIEND,    WILLIAM    LEACHMAN 

And  now  we  was  a-trottin'  'long  a  level  gravel  pike, 
In  a  big  two-hoss  road-wagon,  jest  as  easy  as  you  like — 
Two  of  us  on  the  front  seat,  and  our  wimmern- folks 

behind, 
A-settin'  in  theyr  Winsor-cheers  in  perfect  peace  of 

mind ! 


And  we  pinted  out  old  landmarks,  nearly  faded  out  of 
sight  :— 

Thare  they  ust  to  rob  the  stage-coach ;  thare  Gash  Mor 
gan  had  the  fight 

With  the  old  stag-deer  that  pronged  him — how  he 
battled  fer  his  life, 

And  lived  to  prove  the  story  by  the  handle  of  his  knife. 

Thare  the  first  griss-mill  was  put  up  in  the  Settlement, 

and  we 

Had  tuck  our  grindin'  to  it  in  the  Fall  of  Forty-three — 
When  we  tuck  our  rifles  with  us,  techin'  elbows  all  the 

way, 
And  a-stickin'  right  together  ev'ry  minute,  night  and 

day. 


TO    MY    OLD    FRIEND,    WILLIAM    LEACH  MAN 

Thare  ust  to  stand  the  tavern  that  they  called  the 
"Travelers'  Rest," 

And  thare,  beyent  the  covered  bridge,  "The  Counter- 
fitters'  Nest"— 

Whare  they  claimed  the  house  was  ha'ntecl — that  a 
man  was  murdered  thare, 

And  hurried  underneath  the  floor,  er  'round  the  place 
somewhare. 

And  the  old  Plank-road  they  laid  along  in  Fifty-one  er 

two — 
You  know  we  talked  about  the  times  when  that  old 

road  was  new : 
How  "Uncle  Sam"  put  down  that  road  and  never  taxed 

the  State 
Was  a  problem,  don't  you  rickollect,  we  couldn't  dim- 

onstrate? 

Ways  was  devius,  William  Leachman,  that  me  and  you 

has  past ; 

But  as  I  found  you  true  at  first,  I  find  you  true  at  last ; 
And,  now  the  time's  a-comin'  mighty  nigh  our  jurney's 

end, 
I  want  to  throw  wide  open  all  my  soul  to  you,  my 

friend. 

153 


TO    MY    OLD    FRIEND,    WILLIAM    LEACH  MAN 

With  the  stren'th  of  all  my  behr,  and  the  heat  of  hart 

and  brane, 

And  ev'ry  livin'  drop  of  blood  in  artery  and  vane, 
I  love  you  and  respect  you,  and  I  venerate  your  name, 
Fer  the  name  of  William  Leachman  and  True  Man 
hood's  jest  the  same ! 


154 


A  BACKWARD  LOOK 

AS  I  sat  smoking,  alone,  yesterday, 
And  lazily  leaning  back  in  my  chair, 
Enjoying  myself  in  a  general  way- 
Allowing  my  thoughts  a  holiday 

From  weariness,  toil  and  care,1 — 
My  fancies — doubtless,  for  ventilation- 
Left  ajar  the  gates  of  my  mind, — 
And  Memory,  seeing  the  situation, 

Slipped  out  in  street  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne." 

Wandering  ever  with  tireless  feet 

Through  scenes  of  silence,  and  jubilee 
Of  long-hushed  voices;  and  faces  sweet 
Were  thronging  the  shadowy  side  of  the  street 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  see ; 
Dreaming  again,  in  anticipation, 

The  same  old  dreams  of  our  boyhood's  days 
That  never  come  true,  from  the  vague  sensation 

Of  walking  asleep  in  the  world's  strange  ways. 


oo 


A    BACKWARD    LOOK 

Away  to  the  house  where  I  was  born ! 

And  there  was  the  selfsame  clock  that  ticked 
From  the  close  of  dusk  to  the  burst  of  morn, 
When  life-warm  hands  plucked  the  golden  corn 

And  helped  when  the  apples  were  picked. 
And  the  "chany-dog"  on  the  mantel-shelf, 

With  the  gilded  collar  and  yellow  eyes, 
Looked  just  as  at  first,  when  I  hugged  myself 

Sound  asleep  with  the  dear  surprise. 

And  down  to  the  swing  in  the  locust  tree, 

Where  the 'grass  was  worn  from  the  trampled  ground 
And  where  "Eck"  Skinner,  "Old"  Carr,  and  three 
Or  four  such  other  boys  used  to  be 

Doin'  "sky-scrapers,"  or  "whirlin'  round :" 
And  again  Bob  climbed  for  the  bluebird's  nest, 

And  again  "had  shows"  in  the  buggy-shed 
Of  Guymon's  barn,  where  still,  unguessed, 

The  old  ghosts  romp  through  the  best  days  dead ! 

And  again  I  gazed  from  the  old  school- room 
With  a  wistful  look  of  a  long  June  day, 

When  on  my  cheek  was  the  hectic  bloom 

Caught  of  Mischief,  as  I  presume — - 
He  had  such  a  "partial"  way, 

156 ' 


A    BACKWARD    LOOK 

It  seemed,  toward  me. — And  again  I  thought 

Of  a  probable  likelihood  to  be 
Kept  in  after  school — for  a  girl  was  caught 

Catching  a  note  from  me. 

And  clown  through  the  woods  to  the  swimming-hole- 

Where  the  big,  white,  hollow,  old  sycamore  grows,- 
And  we  never  cared  when  the  water  was  cold, 
And  always  "ducked"  the  boy  that  told 

On  the  fellow  that  tied  the  clothes.— 
When  life  went  so  like  a  dreamy  rhyme, 

That  it  seems  to  me  now  that  then 
The  world  was  having  a  jollier  time 

Than  it  ever  will  have  again. 


159 


AT  SEA 

OWE  go  down  to  sea  in  ships — 
But  Hope  remains  behind, 
And  Love,  with  laughter  on  his  lips, 

And  Peace,  of  passive  mind ; 
While  out  across  the  deeps  of  night, 

With  lifted  sails  of  prayer, 
We  voyage  off  in  quest  of  light, 
Nor  find  it  anywhere. 

O  Thou  who  wroughtest  earth  and  sea, 

Yet  keepest  from  our  eyes 
The  shores  of  an  eternity 

In  calms  of  Paradise, 
Blow  back  upon  our  foolish  quest 

With  all  the  driving  rain 
Of  blinding  tears  and  wild  unrest, 

And  waft  us  home  again. 

1 60 


THE  OLD  GUITAR 

NEGLECTED  now  is  the  old  guitar 
And  moldering  into  decay ; 
Fretted  with  many  a  rift  and  scar 
That  the  dull  dust  hides  away, 
While  the  spider  spins  a  silver  star 
In  its  silent  lips  to-day. 

The  keys  hold  only  nerveless  strings — 

The  sinews  of  brave  old  airs 
Are  pulseless  now ;  and  the  scarf  that  clings 

So  closely  here  declares 
A  sad  regret  in  its  ravelings 

And  the  faded  hue  it  wears. 


161 


THE    OLD    GUITAR 

But  the  old  guitar,  with  a  lenient  grace, 

Has  cherished  a  smile  for  me ; 
And  its  features  hint  of  a  fairer  face 

That  comes  with  a  memory 
Of  a  flower-and-perfume-haunted  place 

And  a  moonlit  balcony. 

Music  sweeter  than  words  confess 
Or  the  minstrel's  powers  invent, 

Thrilled  here  once  at  the  light  caress 
Of  the  fairy  hands  that  lent 

This  excuse  for  the  kiss  I  press 
On  the  dear  old  instrument. 

The  rose  of  pearl  with  the  jeweled  stem 

Still  blooms ;  and  the  tiny  sets 
In  the  circle  all  are  here ;  the  gem 

In  the  keys,  and  the  silver  frets ; 
But  the  dainty  fingers  that  danced  o'er  them- 

Alas  for  the  heart's  regrets  !— 

Alas  for  the  loosened  strings  to-day, 
And  the  wounds  of  rift  and  scar 

On  a  worn  old  heart,  with  its  roundelay 
Enthralled  with  a  stronger  bar 

That  Fate  weaves  on,  through  a  dull  decay 
Like  that  of  the  old  guitar ! 
162 


JOHN  McKEEN 

JOHN  McKEEN,  in  his  rusty  dress, 
His  loosened  collar,  and  swarthy  throat ; 
His  face  unshaven,  and  none  the  less, 
His  hearty  laugh  and  his  wholesomeness, 
And  the  wealth  of  a  workman's  vote ! 

Bring  him,  O  Memory,  here  once  more, 

And  tilt  him  back  in  his  Windsor  chair 
By  the  kitchen-stove,  when  the  day  is  o'er 
And  the  light  of  the  hearth  is  across  the  floor 
And  the  crickets  evervwhere ! 


165 


JOHN    MC  KEEN 

And  let  their  voices  be  gladly  blent 

With  a  watery  jingle  of  pans  and  spoons, 
And  a  motherly  chirrup  of  sweet  content, 
And  neighborly  gossip  and  merriment, 
And  old-time  fiddle-tunes ! 

Tick  the  clock  with  a  wooden  sound, 

And  fill  the  hearing  with  childish  glee 
Of  rhyming  riddle,  or  story  found 
In  the  Robinson  Crusoe,  leather-bound 
Old  book  of  the  Used-to-be ! 

John  McKeen  of  the  Past !    Ah,  John, 

To  have  grown  ambitious  in  worldly  ways  !- 
To  have  rolled  your  shirt-sleeves  down,  to  don 
A  broadcloth  suit,  and,  forgetful,  gone 
Out  on  election  days ! 

John,  ah,  John !  did  it  prove  your  worth 
To  yield  you  the  office  you  still  maintain  ? 

To  fill  your  pockets,  but  leave  the  dearth 

Of  all  the  happier  things  on  earth 
To  the  hunger  of  heart  and  brain? 


1 66 


JOHN    MC  KEEN 

Under  the  dusk  of  your  villa  trees, 

Edging  the  drives  where  your  blooded  span 
Paw  the  pebbles  and  wait  your  ease, — 
Where  are  the  children  about  your  knees, 
And  the  mirth,  and  the  happy  man? 

The  blinds  of  your  mansion  are  battened  to ; 

Your  faded  wife  is  a  close  recluse  ; 
And  your  "finished"  daughters  will  doubtless  do 
Dutifully  all  that  is  willed  of  you, 

And  marry  as  you  shall  choose ! — 

But  O  for  the  old-home  voices,  blent 

With  the  watery  jingle  of  pans  and  spoons, 
And  the  motherly  chirrup  of  glad  content, 
And  neighborly  gossip  and  merriment, 
And  the  old-time  fiddle-tunes! 


^g^F  iiv.,^... 


169 


THROUGH   SLEEPY-LAND 

WHERE  do  you  go  when  you  go  to  sleep, 
Little  Boy !   Little  Boy !   where  ? 
'Way — 'way  in  where's  Little  Bo-Peep, 
And  Little  Boy  Blue,  and  the  Cows  and  Sheep 
A-wandering  'way  in  there — in  there— 
A-wandering  'way  in  there ! 

And  what  do  you  see  when  lost  in  dreams, 

Little  Boy,  'way  in  there  ? 
Firefly-glimmers  and  glowworm-gleams, 
And  silvery,  low,  slow-sliding  streams, 

And  mermaids,  smiling  out — 'way  in  where 
They're  a-hiding — 'way  in  there  ! 


170 


THROUGH    SLEEPY-LAND 

Where  do  you  go  when  the  Fairies  call, 

Little  Boy !  Little  Boy  !  where  ? 
Wade  through  the  dews  of  the  grasses  tall, 
Hearing  the  weir  and  the  waterfall 

And  the  Wee  Folk — 'way  in  there — in  there 
And  the  Kelpies — 'way  in  there ! 

And  what  do  you  do  when  you  wake  at  dawn, 

Little  Boy  !  Little  Boy  !  what  ? 
Hug  my  Mommy  and  kiss  her  on 
Her  smiling  eyelids,  sweet  and  wan, 
And  tell  her  everything  I've  forgot 
About,  a-wandering  'way  in  there — 

Through  the  blind-world  'way  in  there ! 


171 


"THEM  OLD  CHEERY  WORDS" 

PAP  he  allus  ust  to  say, 
"Chris'mus  comes  but  onc't  a  year !' 
Liked  to  hear  him  that-a-way, 

In  his  old  split-bottomed  cheer 
By  the  fireplace  here  at  night- 
Wood  all  in, — and  room  all  bright, 
Warm  and  snug,  and  folks  all  here : 
"Chris'mus  comes  but  onc't  a  year!" 

Me  and  'Lize,  and  Warr'n  and  Jess 

And  Eldory  home  fer  two 
Weeks'  vacation;  and,  I  guess, 

Old  folks  tickled  through  and  through, 
Same  as  we  was, — "Home  onc't  more 
Fer  another  Chris'mus — shore!" 
Pap  'u'd  say,  and  tilt  his  cheer, — 
"Chris'mus  comes  but  onc't  a  year!" 

Mostly  Pap  was  ap1  to  be 

Ser'ous  in  his  "daily  walk," 
As  he  called  it ;  ginerTy 

Was  no  hand  to  joke  er  talk. 
Fac's  is,  Pap  had  never  be'n 
Rugged-like  at  all — and  then 
Three  years  in  the  army  had 
Hepped  to  break  him  purty  bad. 
172 


Never  flinched !  but  frost  and  snow 
Hurt  his  wownd  in  winter.     But 

You  bet  Mother  knowed  it,  though ! — 
Watched  his  feet,  and  made  him  putt 

On  his  flannen ;  and  his  knee, 

Where  it  never  healed  up,  he 

Claimed  was  "well  now — mighty  near — 

Chris'mus  comes  but  onc't  a  year!" 

'Chris'mus  comes  but  onc't  a  year!" 
Pap  'u'd  say,  and  snap  his  eyes    .    .    . 

Row  o'  apples  sputter'n'  here 

Round  the  hearth,  and  me  and  'Lize 

Crackin'  hicker'-nuts;  and  Warr'n 

And  Eldory  parchin'  corn ; 

And  whole  raft  o'  young  folks  here. 

'Chris'mus  comes  but  onc't  a  year!" 

Mother  tuk  most  comfort  in 
Jest  a-heppin'  Pap  :    She'd  fill 

His  pipe  fer  him,  er  his  tin 
O'  hard  cider;  er  set  still 

And  read  fer  him  out  the  pile 

O'  newspapers  putt  on  file 

Whilse  he  was  with  Sherman — (She 

Knowed  the  whole  war-histor ! ) 


"THEM  OLD  CHEERY  WORDS'* 

Sometimes  he'd  git  bet  tip  some.— 
"Boys,"  he'd  say,  "and  you  girls,  too, 

Chris'mus  is  about  to  come; 
So,  as  you've  a  right  to  do, 

Celebrate  it !    Lots  has  died, 

Same  as  Him  they  crucified, 

That  you  might  be  happy  here. 

Chris'mus  comes  but  onc't  a  year!" 

Missed  his  voice  last  Chris'mus — missed 

Them  old  cheery  words,  you  know. 
Mother  belt  up  tel  she  kissed 
All  of  us — then  had  to  go 
And  break  down  !    And  I  laughs  :   "Here  ! 
'Chris'mus  comes  but  onc't  a  year!'  " 
"Them's  his  very  words,"  sobbed  she, 
"When  he  asked  to  marry  me." 

"Chris'mus  comes  but  onc't  a  year!" 

"Chris'mus  comes  but  onc't  a  year !" 
Over,  over,  still  I  hear, 
"Chris'mus  comes  but  onc't  a  year!" 
Yit,  like  him,  I'm  goin'  to  smile 
And  keep  cheerful  all  the  while : 
Allus  Chris'mus  There — And  here 
"Chris'mus  comes  but  onc't  a    ear!" 


TO  THE  JUDGE 
A  Voice  From  the  Interior  of  Old  Hoop-Pole  Township 

FRIEND  of  my  earliest  youth, 
Can't  you  arrange  to  come  clown 
And  visit  a  fellow  out  here  in  the  woods — 

Out  of  the  dust  of  the  town? 
Can't  you  forget  you're  a  Judge 

And  put  by  your  dolorous  frown 
And  tan  your  wan  face  in  the  smile  of  a  friend — 
Can't  you  arrange  to  come  down  ? 

177 


TO    THE    JUDGE 

Can't  you  forget  for  a  while 

The  arguments  prosy  and  drear, — 
To  lean  at  full-length  in  indefinite  rest 

In  the  lap  of  the  greenery  here? 
Can't  you  kick  over  ''the  Bench," 

And  "husk"  yourself  out  of  your  gown 
To  dangle  your  legs  where  the  fishing  is  good— 

Can't  you  arrange  to  come  down  ? 

Bah !  for  your  office  of  State ! 

And  bah !  for  its  technical  lore ! 
What  does  our  President,  high  in  his  chair, 

But  wish  himself  low  as  before! 
Pick  between  peasant  and  king,— 

Poke  your  bald  head  through  a  crown 
Or  shadow  it  here  with  the  laurels  of  Spring  !— 

Can't  you  arrange  to  come  down? 

"Judge  it"  out  here,  if  you  will,— 

The  birds  are  in  session  by  dawn  ; 
You  can  draw,  not  complaints,  but  a  sketch  of  the  hill 

And  a  breath  that  your  betters  have  drawn  ; 
You  can  open  your  heart,  like  a  case, 

To  a  jury  of  kine,  white  and  brown, 
And  their  verdict  of  "Moo"  will  just  satisfy  you  !— 

Can't  you  arrange  to  come  clown? 

178 


TO    THE    JUDGE 

Can't  you  arrange  it,  old  Pard? — 

Pigeonhole  Blackstone  and  Kent ! — 
Here  we  have  "Breitmann,"  and  Ward, 

Twain,  Burdette,  Nye,  and  content! 
Can't  you  forget  you're  a  Judge 

And  put  by  your  dolorous  frown 
And  tan  your  wan  face  in  the  smile  of  a  friend- 

Can't  you  arrange  to  come  down  ? 


181 


OUR  BOYHOOD   HAUNTS 

HO  !   I'm  going  back  to  where 
We  were  youngsters. — Meet  me  there, 
Dear  old  barefoot  chum,  and  we 
Will  be  as  we  used  to  be,— 
Lawless  rangers  up  and  down 
The  old  creek  beyond  the  town — 
Little  sunburnt  gods  at  play, 
Just  as  in  that  far-away : — 
Water  nymphs,  all  unafraid, 
Shall  smile  at  us  from  the  brink 
Of  the  old  millrace  and  wade 
Tow'rd  us  as  we  kneeling  drink 
At  the  spring  our  boyhood  knew, 
Pure  and  clear  as  morning-dew  : 

.182 


OUR    BOYHOOD    HAUNTS 

And,  as  we  are  rising  there, 
Doubly  clow'rd  to  hear  and  see, 
We  shall  thus  be  made  aware 
Of  an  eerie  piping,  heard 
High  above  the  happy  bird 
In  the  hazel :    And  then  we, 
Just  across  the  creek,  shall  see 
(Hah  !  the  goaty  rascal !)    Pan 
Hoof  it  o'er  the  sloping  green, 
Mad  with  his  own  melody, 
Aye,  and  (bless  the  beasty  man!) 
Stamping  from  the  grassy  soil 
Bruised  scents  of  flcur-dc-lis, 
Boneset,  mint  and  pennyroyal. 


183 


MY  DAXCIN'-DAYS  IS  OVER 

WHAT  is  it  in  old  fiddle-chimes  'at  makes  me  ketch 
my  breath 
And  ripples  up  my  backbone  tel  I'm  tickled  most  to 

death  ?— 
Kindo'  like  that  sweet-sick  feelin',  in  the  long  sweep 

of  a  swing, 

The  first  you  ever  swung  in,  with  yer  first  sweet 
heart,  i  jing! — 
Yer  first   picnic — yer  first   ice-cream — yer   first   o' 

ever*  thing 
'At  happened  'fore  yer  dancin'-days  wuz  over! 

I  never  understood  it — and  I  s'pose  I  never  can,— 
But  right  in  town  here,  yisterd'y,  I  heerd  a  pore  blind- 
man 
A-fiddlin'    old     "Gray    Eagle"— And-sir  I      I    jes 

stopped  my  load 
O'  hay  and  listened  at  him — yes,  and  watched  the 

way  he  "bow'd," — 
And  back  I  went,  plum  forty  year',  with  boys  and 

girls  I  knowed 

And    loved,    long    'fore    my    dancin'-days    wuz 
over ! — 

184 


At  high  noon  in  yer  city, — with  yer  blame  Magnetic- 
Cars 
A-hummin'  and  a-screetchin'  past — and  bands  and  G. 

A.  R.'s 
A-marchin' — and    fire-ingines. — All   the    noise,    the 

whole  street  through, 

Wuz  lost  on  me  !' — I  only  heerd  a  whipperwill  er  two, 
It  'peared-like,  kindo'  callin'  'crost  the  darkness  and 

the  dew, 
Them  nights  afore  my  dancin'-days  wuz  over. 

T'uz  Chused'y-night  at  Wetherell's,  er  We'nsd'y-night 

at  Strawn's, 
Er  Fourth-o'-July-night   at  uther  Tomps's   house   er 

John's  !— 
With  old  Lew  Church  from  Sugar  Crick,  with  that 

old  fiddle  he 
Had  sawed  clean  through  the  Army,  from  Atlanty 

to  the  sea— 
And  yit  he'd  fetched  her  home  ag'in,  so's  he  could 

play  fer  me 
Onc't  more  afore  my  dancin'-days  wuz  over ! 


MY    DANCIN  -DAYS    IS    OVER 

The  woods  'at's  all  ben  cut  away  wuz  growin'  same  as 

then ; 
The  youngsters  all  wuz  boys  ag'in  'at's  now  all  oldish 

men ; 
And  all  the  girls  'at  then  wuz  girls — I  saw  'em,  one 

and  all, 
As  plain  as  then — the  middle-sized,  the  short-and- 

fat,  and  tall— 
And,  'peared-like,  I  danced  "Tucker"  fer  'em  up  and 

down  the  wall 
Jes  like  afore  my  dancin'  days  wuz  over ! 


Yer  />o-leece  they  can  holler  "Say!  you,  Uncle!  drive 

ahead  !— 
You  can't  use  all  the  right-o'-way !" — fer  that  wuz 

what  they  said  ! — 

But,  jes  the  same, — in  spite  of  all  'at  you  call  "inter- 
prise 
And  prog-gress  of  yon- folks  Today,"  we're  all  of 

fambly-ties — 
We're  all  got  feelin's  fittin'  fer  the  tears  'at's  in  our 

eyes 
Er  the  smiles  afore  our  dancin'-days  is  over. 


1 88 


HER    BEAUTIFUL    HANDS 

OYOUR  hands — they  are  strangely  fair! 
Fair — for  the  jewels  that  sparkle  there,— 
Fair — for  the  witchery  of  the  spell 
That  ivory  keys  alone  can  tell ; 
But  when  their  delicate  touches  rest 
Here  in  my  own  do  I  love  them  best, 
As  I  clasp  with  eager  acquisitive  spans 
My  glorious  treasure  of  beautiful  hands! 

Marvelous — wonderful — beautiful  hands ! 
They  can  coax  roses  to  bloom  in  the  strands 
Of  your  brown  tresses ;  and  ribbons  will  twine, 
Under  mysterious  touches  of  thine, 
Into  such  knots  as  entangle  the  soul, 
And  fetter  the  heart  under  such  a  control 
As  only  the  strength  of  my  love  understands — 
My  passionate  love  for  your  beautiful  hands. 

As  I  remember  the  first  fair  touch 
Of  those  beautiful  hands  that  I  love  so  much, 
I  seem  to  thrill  as  I  then  was  thrilled, 
Kissing  the  glove  that  I  found  unfilled— 
When  I  met  your  gaze,  and  the  queenly  bow. 
As  you  said  to  me,  laughingly,  "Keep  it  now !" 
And  dazed  and  alone  in  a  dream  I  stand 
Kissing  this  ghost  of  your  beautiful  hand. 


HER    BEAUTIFUL    HANDS 

When  first  I  loved,  in  the  long  ago, 
And  held  your  hand  as  I  told  you  so — 
Pressed  and  caressed  it  and  gave  it  a  kiss, 
And  said  "I  could  die  for  a  hand  like  this!" 
Little  I  dreamed  love's  fulness  yet 
Had  to  ripen  when  eyes  were  wet, 
And  prayers  were  vain  in  their  wild  demands 
For  one  warm  touch  of  your  beautiful  hands. 

Beautiful  Hands  !     O  Beautiful  Hands  ! 

Could  you  reach  out  of  the  alien  lands 

Where  you  are  lingering,  and  give  me,  to-night 

Only  a  touch — were  it  ever  so  light— 

My  heart  were  soothed,  and  my  weary  brain 

Would  lull  itself  into  rest  again; 

For  there  is  no  solace  the  world  commands 

Like  the  caress  of  vour  beautiful  hands. 


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